


Heavenly Demons and Damned Angels

by Latter_alice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, but tbh how much would it even change things, its a reversed omens au, okay maybe it changes a bit more than previously assumed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-11-27 07:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latter_alice/pseuds/Latter_alice
Summary: Due to Crowley's love of sleep, he didn't fall. Aziraphale wasnt as lucky. But really, how much does that change?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a proof of concept I couldn't help but drag out of my brain. I didn't really spend much time on it, just needed it out of my head.
> 
> May or may not be the only one I do, we'll see.

_ He was Falling. _

It was a simple order, Aziraphale supposed.

_ “Just go be a leader. Confident.” _

Angels in kilts lined the halls of Heaven like statues. 

It was always pristine. A sterile, perfect white. The most interesting things about Heaven, he found out later, was that it really didn’t smell like anything. The second most was how there was a permanent coolness in the air. Enough to make a person just uncomfortable enough to notice. He always had goosebumps.

Everyone was in a tight line, shoulder to shoulder, kilts brushed together. Their chests bulged so far they almost seemed deformed, an unnatural curve. Rigid arms were lifted to their foreheads in a perfect, angular salute.

But the eyes- the eyes were windows into another world. Fire. Pure fire.

Aziraphale swallowed and kept his eyes on the floor, mostly. The clicks of his heels reverberated in silence as he walked past dozens upon dozens of waiting soldiers.

Lucifer- Satan now- had gone against the Almighty Herself, and brought down a third of the angels with him. He’d seen them, some of them, Fall.

It started with a question, a slight attitude. And then their eyes would widen. Some dropped to the ground, a few clutched their chests as they stared into space. Some sobbed. And then the fire would come. He swallowed.

“Aziraphale!”

A man with a twisted, brown mustache yelled at him a few paces ahead. A row of stars adorned his white, militaristic jacket. Not a single soldier flinched at the noise. Aziraphale fidgeted with his pinky ring.

“Yes?” he called out.

“Your platoon is  _ waiting _ for you!” The man snapped, and a sword appeared in his hand. He shoved it towards him. “You’ll be on the front lines.”

Flames erupted from the crystal-like blade when Aziraphale grasped it. No warmth came from the flame, just a gentle crackle as it moved in place “The fire. It’ll hurt them- the  _ demons _ .”

_ Demons _ . That's what they were calling them now, hm? The flames flickered, but his mind was elsewhere.

How many had he seen Fall today? How many of his fellow angels had been stricken into this same fire as they screamed?

Demons were born in fire. Fire and tears

With a deep intake of breath, Aziraphale shook his head. He dared a glance towards the officer. “I-I don’t think that's the case.”

His eyes widened, “Is that  _ dissent _ , soldier?”

Ah. A mistake, then. He tried to smile, and his eyes sauntered down. 

“No.” The word made his heart twist.

“Good-”

“But-” he tried to sturdy his voice, “Our-our siblings, they’re  _ born _ in fire, are they not?”

Hands were around his collar. The yank snapped his head back, an attempt to not brush against the man’s nose. Aziraphale could feel the hot breath of his words. “They’re  _ not _ our siblings. They are the enemy.”

He could feel ten thousand eyes on him, staring at his back. All the thinly caged hatred slicing his skin.

Any words had been a mistake. One he should’ve stopped before he started.

But Aziraphale...

Aziraphale had seen them  _ cry _ . He saw angels go from having a bad day, maybe saying something not exactly tasteful, to having the  _ worst _ possible day imaginable.

Angels weren’t meant to crumble and cry. Most looked like finely crafted statues, paragons of a divine concept. But he’d seen so many crack, so many tumble to the ground in a pool of their own sobs.

And then there was fire. 

He could see the orange and red fury of flames dance around the blade in his peripheral as the General held him in place, examined him.

Wasn’t burning them once enough?

“I-can’t- can't someone else lead them?” He tried to swallow again, but it wouldn't go down. “Someone more qu-qualified?”

He heard the clanks of the sword as it hit the ground. A moment passed before he realised he fell too.

At first it wasn't much of anything. A vague sense of loss. Like he was a burst a wind blowing through an empty room that used to have  _ something _ in it, but he couldn’t remember what, exactly.

Then he could feel the heat. A sticky thing that crawled up his back and clenched his throat closed. His heart skipped beats, and stuttered along erratically. His blood turned into liquid panic as it clamped down.

He opened his mouth to breath, but just lurched forward. The airways sealed themselves shut.

People faded. If they were talking he couldn’t hear. The whites meshed into one, singular blur as he looked from side to side. A chill seized his body

_ Help _

He could feel his skin prickle. The ever-present goosebumps multiplied. Pulled. Twisted. 

Burned.

It was a slow, fast transition. The skin around warmed first, and then the bump. Hotter, hotter, hotter. Little needles injecting lava- fire, straight into his skin

He didn't hear himself scream, but he felt the hoarseness. His skin popped and crackled, then busted open into flame.

All he could see was red.

His wings tore open, and the fire clung to it. The crack of his back snapping backwards was an afterthought.

And then he was falling.

The solid ground had dissipated. Dotted out of existence.

Falling. 

And it wasn't just a sense of loss. It wasn't just being burned. It wasn't being kicked out.

It was something empty and wretched and beyond a physical sensation. 

Everything was dark and red and seemed to go on for an eternity, or an instant. 

He passed out before the lake of burning sulfur consumed him. But consciousness wasn’t needed to  _ remember,  _ if he dared think about it after.

*

God's green garden was the most radiant shade of green imaginable. The plants breathed and shimmered in the sun, their spotless leaves danced. The sweet flowers pollen intoxicated any nose that brushed it, promised it a home and a hug.

The water was liquid crystal. Always the right temperature to drink.

Each tree, each bush, every flower- they all existed as a perfect painting of symmetry. No uneven sides existed in Eden. The colors were balanced. The beginnings of life flourished, unhindered

It was… Boring. Excessively dull.

Anthony, Angel of the Eastern Gate, frowned as he squinted at the sky. Space had been so much more interesting. Feeling the tingling burn of creation in his fingertips. Free to admire the black reaches of eternity as they filled it.

He’d been stationed here for over two weeks. The flaming sword he’d been assigned hadn't left the spot on the wall he’d leaned it against. Nothing happened, nothing changed, except when the humans came in a couple days ago. But they hadn’t done much, so the mild interest fizzled out fairly fast.

_ “Go and look after the Almighty Human creations. Ensure no trouble comes.” _

He’d agreed easily enough, the thought of actually seeing trouble was alluring. It seemed he missed a whole rebellion due to a particularly long nap, and was quite confused when he woke up. Briefly thought he managed to sleep all the way up to the holidays, with all the missing angels.

Not that he wanted to  _ fight _ , but. Well. It would've been at least a little interesting, see what was happening.

It was punishment, he supposed- walking around the same wall again and again and  _ again _ . All the other artists were still crafting the wonders of the Earth. Which was fair, sleeping for two weeks straight had been a little excessive.

But still, the wall was exactly 3,879 paces around. Which he’d counted. Several dozen times. How long was this meant to go on for, exactly?

A soft yelp below caught his attention. He peered over the edge of the wall, and saw someone that definitely was  _ not _ one of the humans mixed in the foliage.

Bits of color poked through the leaves.

“Hey! You!”

A yelp rang out again, and he shuffled out from under the tree. He was plump, and blond hair was a ball of short, blond twists. The edges were frayed. A black tunic hung like a satin blanket around his pale skin. The contrast made him smile.

“Yeah! You!”

The man’s head cranked up as he squinted. “Uh, yes?”

“What’re you doing here?” 

He gave a response, but Anthony couldn’t really make it out. 

“What?”

The man repeated it, to no avail.

“Alright, alright look. I need you,” he pointed down, and motioned back upwards, “to come up here.”

He watched the blond man struggle to climb the wide of the wall for a few moments before sighing, and snapped.

The stranger materialized next to him, and instantly fell on the floor. Blue eyes peeked up, and he pulled a strained smile into place.

Anthony gaped.

_ His eye _ . The blue irises were deep and appeared to  _ swirl _ instead of sit still. Nearly electric. Plasma that mirrored some of the stars he’d helped craft, in a way. Nothing like the calmed colors of angels. They popped. 

The pupil, while circular, was more of a deep indigo than a true black. 

The promise of power in them would’ve sent a shiver down his side if the man didn't look so...  _ lost _ .

He offered a hand.

“Oh-oh  _ thank  _ you."

Anthony hoisted him up, and tried to not  _ also _ gawk at his wing. Dark as creation, perfect compliment to the stuff of stars in his eyes. And he smelled so  _ sweet _ . Like those little blobs of colored juice-balls the humans had been eating since they arrived

“That would've been dreadful, to go up the whole thing.”

Crows wings, he decided. Cunning creatures, ones he'd learned to respect in the few weeks he'd been stationed.

“So, you’re a demon, hm?” His head tilted to the side as he examined him, from his feet to the crown of his head.

He sighed, “I’m afraid so. Aziraphale.”

“That’s an angelic name.”

Aziraphale’s face pinched and his gaze snapped away. ‘Missed the renaming ceremony. I was a, uh,  _ late _ arrival.”

“Well, that's unfortunate.” And he did suppose it was. A permanent reminder of something lost. “Could change it anyway.”

And that was a thought. The freedom to choose one's name. An identity crafted by yourself. A crow flew past them.

“Oh no, I don’t mind my given name.”

He chuckled. “Very  _ demonic _ of you.”

The demon fidgeted with his tunic, and seemed to find the floor quite interesting. “Lord Beelzebub wasn't too pleased.”

“Oh they’ll get over it.” He hummed as he watched the birds fly over distant trees. “But, if a demons keeping his name, I suppose I could change mine if I wanted, hm?”

“I’m not sure if that’s the best idea-”

“Yeah, cause fallen angels know  _ all about _ great ideas."

Aziraphale flinched, and the angel immediately stuck his hand out. “I think I’ll go with Crowley.”

Aziraphale's hand felt like fading embers. Traces of warmth, almost comforting. His nails were as black as his wings. 

“Crows,” Aziraphale said the word slowly, like he was tasting it, however lightly. “Clever creatures, those ones.”

“So what brings you to Eden, demon?”

A gust of breath escaped him, shoulders slumped. “I’m  _ supposed _ to be causing trouble, but I haven’t the slightest idea how to  _ do _ that. Very,” he paused as he searched for a word, “vague. I think Lord Beelzebub sent me here to get me away from them, really.”

“I can relate to that one. Punishment and nonsense orders.” He motioned towards the garden as he leaned towards the demon. “ _ I'm _ only here because I slept through that whole… Mess. Then I'm given some silly order to protect this place-” he stopped, and snapped his gaze to Aziraphale. “And what's with this apple business?”

“Oh, I wouldn't know,” his frowned deeped, contemplative. “No briefings in Hell it seems.”

“You know what  _ I _ think?” He looked back to the greenery, “None of this makes  _ any _ sense. If the Almighty’s so concerned with some fruit, why not put it on the moon?”

A flash of fear crossed his face. He glared. “That's- That’s borderline blasphemy! Are you  _ trying _ to Fall?”

His eyebrows shot up. A demon? Worried about an angel Falling?

“And why would that concern you, hm? Shouldn’t you  _ want _ more soldiers down there?”

“What I  _ want _ is to never have to go back to that dreary place,” his nose scrunched as he scowled, “Hell  _ desperately _ needs new plumbing.” He motioned to his body, “And color pallet.”

He was- he was  _ pouting _ . Was this  _ seriously  _ the dastardly enemy he’d been warned about?

Crowley cackled, laughter shook his whole body. “You know,” he gave an airy laugh, “Heaven, while clean, is rather dull too.”

“At least they have  _ manners _ upstairs.”

He laughed again before he spoke. “Well,” he let the words drag out, “I bet they’d leave you alone for  _ quite _ some time if you got the humans to eat that apple.” He put his hands in the air. “Not that I’m telling you to do that, of course.”

The demon just stared at him, mouth agape “Are you  _ sure  _ you’re an angel?”

“Hey- I’m the one with the white wings here.”

Aziraphale's eyes trailed their way to the middle of the forest. Looking for The Tree, perhaps. 

He hummed. “I do think you may be right about that.”

“Plus, the almighty can't be too mad. She did put a pretty big neon sign on the blasted thing.”

Soon enough, Aziraphale had slipped away, and stumbled down the wall. Crowley made no move to stop him. 

Anything was better than standing on a wall. And if head office asked, he’d just spin some story about how he thought they meant dangers  _ outside _ the walls.

Either way, something was bound to happen eventually, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm making more of this. I have a few chapters written out in advance, so this shouldn't be shelved for too terribly long if I get caught up in work

The advice the angel gave was solid, and had occurred to him, but the problem was the tree itself, mostly.

Everything around it was so painstakingly  _ alive _ . Birds chirped louder, the crumbling dirt felt like it invaded his pours in its lushness. The apples were a perfect, glaring red. They caught your eye and screamed  _ stop _ ,  _ yield _ , and it’s shimmer was enough to catch your eye from any corner of Eden. Things ended in red. Red that coiled his insides, red that made his blood run cold and skin burn at the sight of it. They ended in red, they ended in fire.

Of course it was the best option

He didn’t  _ need _ an angel to tell him that. Didn’t need to see another lost soul, ripe to fall themselves to know. Didn’t need to hear little words, inquisitive, questioning, that flicked out like flames.

It was fitting, how friendly the red of his hair looked. A warm cascade of gentle curls that was more water than fire, or how he had eyes with all the gold of any halo.

He would certainly rather not think about it charring, frayed like his own hair that used to flow and twist so well. To think about the gold turning yellow, sickly. Maybe disappearing altogether.

But those thoughts made actually going  _ through _ with his job easier, made it become more of a distraction than anything.

So he took the advice and left. Eve was so trusting, Adam gave no protest. Aziraphale’s gut strangled itself through the whole thing.

He sat on the wall after that. Felt the loose rocks press into his skin and hugged his knees. Maybe he pressed a little harder, let the jagged bits dig in.

The desert was the apotheosis of everything deserts would ever be. Vast. Dry. Empty. And Aziraphale sentenced them to wander it just to protect his own neck. 

The sun crawled to the horizon, after a while of him staring. its rays doused the dunes in orange.

In the distance, he could make out the humans scampering away. Adam wielded a sword against a four-legged beast, and Aziraphale could swear it was flaming.

The image of  _ his _ sword flashed in his mind. Maybe the angel would smite him this time, when he came back. Surely he’d been given it instead.

"Aziraphale!"

The sound of his name was like the prick of a needle, despite the chipper tone. He clutched his legs harder, closed his eyes. Crowley’s footsteps got closer, and stopped.

"That went down like a lead balloon."

Aziraphale’s eyes cracked open. "Pardon?"

Crowley's smile was beaming, an elated state of unfiltered excitement. The gold in his irises  _ shimmered _ . Literally shimmered. Otherworldly. "I said, that went down like a lead balloon."

He shook his head. Repeating it explained nothing. "I, uh, suppose it did, rather."

The angel peered towards the humans, lifted himself on the balls of his feet as he stretched over the side. Adam was still fighting, and Crowley's smile flattened. Grey clouds gathered a ways out.

"Bit of an overreaction, don't you think? First offense and all."

"Ah." His fault. The creature wailed, probably struck down. "Perhaps so. It was more my offense than anything."

The angel plopped down next to him. Last time, they hadn’t been this close. Crowley smelled like apples. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

"The way I see it," he leaned back, propped up by the palm of his hands, "they're better off knowing the difference anyway."

"Well, surely  _ something _ about it must be bad." That's why  _ he _ was mixed up in it. A demon coming in to sully Her creation. 

"I dunno know. Not sold on it, really."

The beast was struck down. Smoke swirled in the air above the corpse. It  _ was _ Heavenly.

"Did-Did you  _ give _ them that sword?"

Crowley stared into the distance. "Eh, I didn't need it."

"Won't Heaven be mad?"

He clicked his tongue. "And why does that concern a demon, hm?"

He’d Fallen for less. For just a plea, mostly unspoken-  _ don’t make me hurt them. _ And this angel gives away the same sword? After advising a demon on how to do their job?

His head spun. Shaking it didn’t help.

"Aren't you the  _ least bit  _ concerned you've done the wrong thing?"

"Not really, no.” He quirked an eyebrow up. “Are you concerned you did the  _ right _ thing?"

For a moment, he felt the pull of the apple again. What if humans  _ were _ meant to eat it? His chest tightened.

"I- you don't think I did, do you?"

"Oh, don't worry, you're a demon. I'm sure Hell will look at it as a win regardless of whatever the Almighty has planned."

Thunder roared nearby, and the little cuts of rain crept closer to the wall. A gentle whoosh of air ruffled his hair, and a white wing covered the top of his head.

Aziraphale's gut somersaulted as his mouth gaped, looking at the array of perfectly groomed feathers arched over him.

"Could be holy." He shrugged, but the words wavered.

The flutter in the demon's chest stabbed him.

There it was, wasn’t it? Why an angel this out of line had to have been spared from Falling. Sleeping or not. 

"_Thank_ _you_."

He said nothing, and Aziraphale, very tentatively, scooted closer. Their shoulders almost brushed. 

"It'd be funny if we both got it wrong." His tone didn't sound amused. "If I did the bad and you the good."

"Hilarious," Aziraphale said dryly. A sigh slid from him. "I guess we'll find out though."

Eventually, the rain let up, and the angel was pulled back to file a report. 

*

Heaven was unnecessarily cool, but Hell was unnecessarily  _ clammy _ .

It wasn't warm. The coolness of the upper floors didn't leave, it merely became damp. Moisture in the air seeped into a person's clothes enough to make it stick, enough to make it known.

And it was cramped. Heaven was spacious, airy, civil. Hell was a mosh pit of depressed and mildly irritated people. No one was quiet, and something was always dripping. Very decidedly  _ not  _ motivating motivational posters were taped to the walls with no rhyme or reason. There were a few halls and doorways, all aptly labeled. 

_ The Hall of Torture _ ,  _ Hellhound Supply,  _ and, the last one he noticed a while back, _Possession_ _ Selection Room _ , made him shudder. How intrusive something like that must be. And surely unnecessary with only two candidates around, right?

Lord Beelzebub sat in front of Aziraphale.

"Demon," they droned. Their posture was rigid, but relaxed. Disinterested. "What've you to report?"

"Ah well," he tried to smile, "I'm here to say the humans have been thrown from Eden."

"So I've heard." They raised an eyebrow. "And  _ you  _ did that?"

His hands strangled each other behind him. "I was the only demon present."

Beelzebub sneered. "I  _ know _ that, demon.  _ How? _ "

"They were tempted to eat from The Tree, and were thrown out as warned."

"And  _ you _ did that?"

He nodded. They examined his face for a moment. "Very well. Our Lord will be pleased."

He couldn't bring himself to respond.

"If you were to select a more  _ suitable _ name, then I'm sure you could avoid being sent back to Earth, demon."

"Ah, that won't be necessary-"

" _ Aziraphale _ ." He flinched at the sting. Beelzebub hummed, but it sounded more like a buzz than anything else. "Do you  _ enjoy _ the pain?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile. "A mild sting is of little concern." 

Beelzebub darted from their thrown. Their hands balled into his tunic and tugged. Beelzebubs eyes were like ice in every way they could be, and only a few inches away from his own.

" _ Aziraphale _ ." 

He held back the flinch. Beelzebub scowled, and then whispered his name in the traditional angelic tongue.

He gasped. The pain was instant. A fresh, searing heat shot up his back. The crack of his knees hitting the floor barely registered as he tried to catch his breath.

"And  _ that _ ," Beelzebub spat, "is why demons change their name."

He glanced up, panting on all fours at Beelzebub sitting on their throne. " _ Why? _ "

"A  _ lesson _ . Imagine if I  _ yelled it _ ," they dragged an irritated breath in. "Change  _ your name _ , demon."

Aziraphale shook his head, then wobbly stood back up. "Won't be necessary." 

"You've proven useful. Shame you're stupid. Get out of my sight, go claim the humans’ souls for our Lord." Their eyes trailed him slowly. Deliberately. "Before someone repeats that little...  _ experiment _ ."

*

Crowley didn't remember Heaven being so extraordinarily dull before he was tasked with helping create the Heavens of the humanly realm.

Endless white halls. Ghost quiet most places. Bloody cold. It was funny, how he’d never noticed the chill of the air, but now it was unmistakable after being under the sun for days on end. He’d been aware of something not feeling right, after experiencing the heat of creation under his fingers while he helped make the stars, but it hadn’t clicked.

Now that he was back  _ in _ Heaven, his mind wandered from questions of apples and humans back to the enigma that was his two-week leave of absence.

He’d been ripped from sleep, shoved a sword with some curt explanation that they were short on hands after the Fall and lazy bastards get demoted.

It was… rather confusing, then. So what? Some angels did not great things and were cast out? For what exactly? The only answer he heard was “Defying Gods will,” which seemed vague and unhelpful. But the Wall gave more questions, so he shoved the box labelled  _ Falling  _ aside in favour of those, and marvelled at the sky he helped make.

He was prepared for a reprimand about the humans falling prey to demonic intent, maybe more if they were paying any attention at all, and, on top of that he was prepared to be late to his next assignment briefing. All angels had been recalled, and that meant he could inquire about his old coworker’s opinions on some matters. Get some context, maybe?

What he wasn’t prepared for, was Archangel Michael, in an equally harsh white suit that was  _ nothing _ like the flowing white tunic assigned to him, to be in his old living quarters. Or, a wall where his old quarters used to be.

It was just a hallway, with a particularly smug-looking Archangel staring at the sleek, nondescript whiteness of the wall.

She turned to him, a small glance of acknowledgement. “Anthony. Back from the garden, are you?”

He huffed an indignant breath, and motioned towards the wall, “ _ Where _ have the artists quarters gone, Michael?”

Her satisfied smirk snapped to a glare, “Well,  _ Anthony _ , it seems you’re the last one left. No need to keep a monument to traitors around, don't you think?”

His mouth hung open, “Are you kidding me?”

A small chill ran across him. That  _ wasn’t _ what they said in his little debrief before—  _ out crafting the wonders of the Earth. _

A very sweet, very fake smile dotted her face. “Oh I’m an Angel, I don’t kid. You’re the last one left it seems.” She tilted her head, the unsettling smile didn’t fade, “Didn’t they tell you, before sending you down there?”

His mouth was dry, and, though his hand itched to, he kept them unclenched. “Yeah.”

She motioned towards the wall, as if it were a painting. “Doesn’t it look so much  _ better _ , with that in mind?”

He gave a sharp nod. “Course. Got to be going now.”

As he retreated, her voice echoed down the otherwise empty hall. “Give Gabriel my regards.”

*

He was late, but Gabriel was more late, it seemed.

So he stood in a large, white room, overlooking a conglomerate of marvels outside of Heaven’s only window. Or at least the only window he’d seen since he left for the stars.

He scowled out of the thing, and pulled his arms together in an iron grip.

The stars… Their makers all Fell. Every person he’d had a working acquaintanceship with.

What made  _ him _ so special?

That strange demon flashed in his head and it stung him.  _ That _ Fall was certainly unjust, or at least didn't make any sense at all. Aziraphale, if anything, was a poor little angel that drew the world's most unlucky hand.

He shook his head, clearing the thought as footsteps echoed in his direction. Right. Meetings. Possible damnation. Or at least an unwelcome demotion. 

"Anthony!" Gabriel patted him on the shoulder. He was in a grey suit, already abandoning the formal wear. Or maybe the tunic was out of favour already. The archangel's face was bright and perplexed. His head tilted just the slightest bit. "Don't tell me  _ you're  _ the angel I'm here to talk to?"

He clicked his tongue. "Fraid so."

Gabriel shook his head and sighed. "Funny that I'm your boss now. I heard the rumour, but didn’t think it was true.”

Crowley felt something. A pinch of guilt he shoved right back down. He kept his face calm. “Yeah. Well. Department sort of…” he motioned vaguely and heaved a sigh, “shut down and all.”

“Right. But hey,” his smile broadened, “they weren’t all bad, you’re here! Good riddance.” His words were cheerful. Proud boss routine. He bloody  _ beamed _ . He wasn’t close to his old coworkers, but something didn’t sit right. The dismissiveness of the loss.

Crowley hummed. “Guess so.” 

Gabriel’s face turned sour, his posture straightened. “As you’re aware, the Eden mission was a failure.”

“Unfortunate.” He rolled the word out, trying to decide if it was a lie or not. He figured not though. Objectively it was unfortunate for Gabriel, at least.

“ _ Very. _ Now our mission of claiming the human’s souls will be  _ much  _ harder. So,” he paused, and waited for Crowley to catch his eye. “We need you to stay on Earth, make sure things go smoothly, with all these,” he looked annoyed, “ _ complications _ .”

He thought about asking Gabriel’s thoughts on the whole matter, but then thought better of it. More of a third meeting kind of deal. “Got it. Smooth. Are we still wearing tunics?” He eyed the suit. It was, fro all matter of reason, the exact opposite of Heaven’s previous attire. Crowley attire

“ _ You _ are, on Earth. For the time being.” Gabriel scanned his tunic with an annoyed look on his face, and then snapped.

Crowley peered down at himself. A white three-piece suit. His frown deepened. White like everything else. 

“You can wear that here, new uniform.”

His eyes shot back to Gabriel, one eyebrow arched.“Yours is grey.”

He shrugged. “I’m an archangel, Anthony, no need for a uniform.”

Now _ that _ was a first meeting thing. “About that, call me Crowley.”

Disgust. His eyes flashed bright purple. 

Gabriel’s face contoured. The purple in his irises churned as his brows pulled into a pinch. “You want to  _ change _ your name?”

He nodded.

“Your  _ God-given _ name?”

“Well,” he hadn’t planned this at all really. Spur of the moment decisions and all. “If I’m to be amongst the humans, I’ll also be amongst the demons. They’ll send operatives too, don't you think?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Right. So. A name holds a bit of power, yeah?”

Crowley had no idea if that was strictly  _ true _ , but it sounded good. True enough. Gabriel’s frowned flattened to something more contemplative for a moment. “It does.”

“So, it would be  _ good _ if I hid my angelic name, would it not?”

Gabriel’s eyes scanned him, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “I’ll run it by Micheal, see what she thinks.”

That did an odd crawling thing to his thoughts, but Crowley flashed a smile anyway, and soon found himself back on Earth, distinctly  _ not  _ Fallen, or reprimanded really. And something about that sort of dug under his skin, even more than the sand he was transported onto did. Much more, really. 

He didn't exactly  _ want _ to be damned. But. All of the other artists were.  _ Aziraphale _ was, which, as he stormed through the dunes,  _ really _ made him irritated in a grumbling, exasperated way.

That demon was probably the most huggable thing he'd ever seen. Still fretting over the inhabitants of a place that cast him out. Nervous. He looked  _ concerned  _ that someone was kind to him. 

It didn't make sense. If that Fell, then why would the angel that  _ helped _ a demon get mankind to sin not be Fall worthy?

He shook his head. Utter nonsense. If Heaven couldn't see how ridiculously much that ex angel wanted to be good, how soft and nervous he seemed to be, then Crowley didn't know what to say. Utter. Nonsense.

If he saw him again, he'd have to make an effort to help Aziraphale out. The poor bloke seemed to need it, and Hell didn't seem… supportive. And he did wish he'd get to see him sooner rather than later.

The wish was mostly granted. Sort of.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've worked so many doubles these last few week, didnt have nearly enough time to go over this like I wanted, but also didnt want to push this off any longer so here we are
> 
> Let me know if you're enjoying things so far <3

The deserts cool breeze cut against Aziraphale’s skin, ruffled his black tunic wildly as he circled into himself while sat, gazing into the pitiful fire he'd made hours earlier. Endless white painted dunes surrounded him, empty and uncaring, frozen in time.

He didn't care for the stars above, or the large imposing moon, just how bloody _ uncomfortable _ corporations seemed to be at night. And during the day, when the sun was downright _glaring_ heat.

Really most times seemed awful, except for those nice lulls in between, neither night nor day.

A stick popped in the puny fire, and it took him a considerable control to not reel backwards.

He sighed, and it deflated his entire body with it. Carefully, he scooted a bit closer.

Hopefully it wouldn't get an attitude about itself and burn him. He'd had about enough of that for one eternity.

And sand. He was quite fed up with that entire concept, almost wanted to chuck the thing up to demonic intervention, if that were possibly a thing he could blame on his side.

Aziraphale's hair and skin had been coated in sand for days, weeks, as he wondered aimless, looking for anything at all. Finding… nothing.

The two humans had vanished, Hell had been rather silent after the confused congratulations for the whole apple thing, and that angel was noticeably absent in ant places hed bumped into.

_ Alone_. His mind provided rather unhelpfully.

As if in answer to the unspoken question of _ when _, the air stilled. The moonlight, once a glimmer, looked sick.

A spot of sand ripped itself in an unnatural wind, a small tight circle that slowly morphed to black, to a pool, to a bubbling pit of tar. Squelching maggots bubbled from its center, and slowly crawled up, onto, inside of the crevasses of their mass to take the form of a man

Aziraphale's heart stopped and the unnatural chill hushed over him

The air was the worst of cold that felt like being dunked in water, the sort that left you in pain, nerve ending somehow on fire.

Briefly, he considered trying to miracle himself away, despite the fact he hadn't tried to do any sort of magic since the Fall. But he'd been waiting for this, hadn't he?

"Hastur," he breathed out, once the maggots were a man.

Hastur's skin was even more ghastly in the dead moonlight. The smell of rotted flesh was thick in the air

He cracked his neck, and zeroed him.

Hastur's eyes looked like the Fall themselves. As dark as the pit, darker than anything any human would ever see.

"Sittin' on the job, are we?"

He scram led to his feet. The tips of his tunic were balled in his hands, knuckles white.

"I merely lost the trail, and humans stop for the night, and if I’m to live amongst them, well, and Beezlebub did say-"

"_ Lord _ Beezlebub."

A tight smile. "Ah yes. My deepest apologies-"

He sneered, “I don’t care.”

Aziraphale’s nervous smile flattered. “Of course.”

“I’m here on Lord Beelzebub’s behalf, demon. Heavens been absent. Go to the humans. Come back when anything interestin’ happens.”

“Consider it done.”

The fire flared up in red heat, dashing above both their heads, hot enough, close enough, to scorch.

Hasturs dirt-crusted face sneered.

“_ No _. Consider it done, Hastur, Duke of Hell.”

Aziraphale swallowed, a fury of goosebumps ran down his arms despite himself. “Con-consider it done, Hastur, Duke of Hell.”

The fire calmes and Hastur crossed his arms. He stared for a moment, black pits of eyes emotionless as he scanned.

Slowly he circled Aziraphale, as if sizing him up. Hasturs eyes combed, looking for something he didn't want to think about.

Aziraphale's mouth was far drier than the desert around them, and his grip tightened to steel when he felt the gaze claw along his back.

Eventually, the demon settled back in front of him, face pinched in displeasure

“I don’t like you.”

Is that something he'd even _ want? _ A demon to like him? What would that even entail? A picture of Beezlebub flashed across his mind. He swallowed, but nothing went down.

“Do demons need to like one another?” It was a reasonable question, he supposed. Hopefully safe enough that the other would leave or stray away from this path of conversation. Strickly business would be preferable to… this.

Hastur let out a puff of air behind him. “Lord Beelzebub don’t either. Didn’t bother telling me your name or title. Just some lowly scum assigned to _ Earth _.” 

His eyes shot open and he stumbled back.

Beezlebub hadn’t given his name away? The same demon who so readily brought him to his knees, _ wanted _ to punish him for it? Who had his nerve ending screaming to prove that point?

What was there to gain from _ that _?

He spoke without thinking as his mind spun at that small puzzle.

“It, uhm, sounds like you're not too fond of the place.”

Hastur lurched forward, and yanked him by the scruff of his tunic.

“I don’t like_ you _, demon.”

“Haven’t the faintest idea why,” the half question was out of him in a huff of bewilderment.

“You’re not slick. Talking with that bastard angel,” he spat the title. Hastur released him with a shove. Aziraphale stumbled, but didn’t fall.

He was taken aback. “_ Bastard? _”

Crowley certainly wasn’t… Heavenly, by Heaven’s standards. But a bastard? He was perfectly kind. Crowley miracled him to the wall’s top when he didn’t do it himself, couldn’t bear to, not that the angel could’ve known. He even comforted him, and then shielded him from the rain, the _ first _ rain.

His chest tightened. The painful fluttering was back, more painful than he remembered. 

Crowley took pity on him. Much too kind. Foolishness, really. Aziraphale’s own pity made him Fall. Caring for demons was a mistake, which made his stomach turn.

Honestly, he wished he could see the angel again, and at the same time, desperately hoped he never would again. Drinking Holy Water would be preferable to helping another angel Fall.

Hastur glared at him. “Yeah, got a problem with it? Wouldn’t want to insult your friends.”

An image of Hastur cornering Crowley with a ball of Hellfire slammed into his mind.

Aziraphale tried to sneer, the motion felt awkward. Unfamiliar and strange. “Of course not. If an angel wants to fraternize with a demon and Fall, they’re the only fool with a problem.”

A sliver of truth. Crowley certainly was a fool, but he hadn’t _ seen _ any angel Fall. But Aziraphale had. He’d seen it and felt it, and could picture Crowley crumbled to the ground, wincing and then crying until the fire came— 

Aziraphale tried very hard not to shudder. That was something he would very decidedly _ not _ be responsible for. 

Hastur scoffed, and Aziraphale supposed it was a laugh for him, based on the strangled, botched upturn of his lips.

“They _ are _ stupid, aren’t they?”

He tried to return the expression. “Quite.”

“You’ll have orders soon,” he used his head to gesture towards the fire. “In there.”

And then Hastur was a pile of maggots, then tar, then nothing.

Aziraphale fell to the sandy ground. His hand shook as his breaths became pants. His heart stuttered as he took deep breaths, trying to find some semblance of balance.

What had _ that _ been? An order? An interrogation?

The fire was still several feet higher than it should’ve been, and much, much too red to be earthly.

By the time his breath and heartbeat settled, the fire’s smoke started to gather, and did snake like coils around the flames as they died down.

His breath stopped in a gate as it entered his eyes, invaded his mouth and nose.

Visions flashed. He could see where Adam and Eve went, see the pathway there, and just sort of _ knew _ what was wanted of him— there was a child, a new one, and it was somehow important.

He sighed, and his vision returned, along with the small, earthly fire. It was dim and reeked of brimstone.

The dying embers were a nice shade of red, a familiar one that looked too much like the angels on the walls hair for him not to be reminded.

His closing thoughts as the first rays of daylight threatened to peak over the horizon were of the angel and if he see him again, arising the planes of earth as well, and what it'd mean if he did.

  
  


The general aimless walking he’d done before was gone, he knew each step to take. Apparently, orders meant _ directions _. Quite literally. This is where you go, go do the thing. So it took him a day of effort, and he found Eve, swollen and ready to burst, roasting an animal’s carcass over an open flame as daylight dimmed.

She was certainly a sight, he assumed. Her hair was thick, and the luscious curls framed her fair. The fluttering smile, gently curved lines of her jaw, and light glimmer in her eye spoke of a contentedness that he hadn’t seen in Eden.

And Crowley was talking to her.

A cool panic set in, his muscles locked into place, heart beat out of sync.

The angel stood next to her, arms crossed and, for all intents and purposes, brooding. Eve laughed next to him, the faint noises carried over the distance just enough to hear.

He needed to not be here, not with Hastur being vaguely threatening, anything else aside.

Aziraphale needed to get away_ right now _. 

His eyes darted from side to side, but the world was empty. The only building ever made was where he couldn’t go to hide.

Crowley glanced in his direction.

He stumbled backwards and tripped.

His eyes slammed shut in preparation for the impact that never came. The world shifted, or at least his _ body _ shifted, and everything was lighter, like his entire bosy was one with the breeze, _ was _ the breeze.

He had wings— Not that that was new, he always had wings if he wanted, but the wings were where his hands used to be

Wings that_ flapped _ once, twice, and he firmly seated himself on the ground, three times lower than he was used to.

He opened his mouth, which also felt very _ very _ different, and went cross-eyes to try and get a proper look. A proper look at his beak. _ Beak _.

He tried to scream, but all that came out was a very frantic _ who-who-who _ sound.

He was a bloody owl. An owl. _ Owl. _ A grey one, it seemed.

Several thoughts buzzed in his mind, the most pressing was if he could _ reverse _ it. The next being, when, exactly, was Hell going to tell him he could turn into an animal? And that it could happen _ accidentally? _ Unless it wasn’t supposed to happen. Oh Go— Satan, what if it _ wasn’t _ supposed to happen? How would he get back to _ normal? _

He tried to look at his wings better, and his head, quite accidentally, went a full 180 degrees behind him. Which was not only strange, but incredibly frightening. If he could die of a heart attack, he would’ve then and there.

The bird noises became more erratic, his wings more so twitched wildly than flapped.

“Hey— hey little dove thing!” A familiar voice said. His head snapped back, and he froze mid wing flap and the noises died in his bird throat.

Crowley was staring wearily at him. His brows pulled together and his mouth set in an uncertain line.

“That’s right, _ calm _. You’re freaking the human out, and the other one isn’t back so she’s not allowed to give birth yet.”

He tried to respond. Instead, it was a _ who _.

Crowley snorted, the weariness melted away. “Must be new here.”

Aziraphale just stared. Perhaps it was better he could respond. If the angel said the wrong thing to him like _ this _, then certainly nothing bad could happen.

And then he leaned in. “Your eyes…” His golden ones widened. “Aziraphale, is that _ you _?”

The frantic bird noises returned.

“Okay! Okay! That’s a yes, still a bundle of nerves in this I see.” He shook his head, then leaned forward, eyebrow raised as he examined him. “What’re you _ doing _ in there?”

He _ who'd_. Which mostly just frustrated him.

Crowley examined him. “Right. Well. This is _ not _ going to work.” He offered a hand, placed it by his bird feet. “Get on.”

Aziraphale stared at it.

Crowley sighed, a frustrated noise. “Look, I’d love to help you with,” he motioned vaguely, “Whatever this is, but my Gabriel will be up my arse if I miss the delivery for _ some _ blasted reason, and you look like a hot mess. So please,” he offered a hand, “get _ on.” _

Slowly, he wrapped his bird claws around his hand, and was promptly carried over to the little clay hut.

Eve was in it, nursing a small, very miniature human next to a pit of fire. Fire very much seemed like an _ outside _ thing, but to each their own. She said nothing about his presence. Which was both confusing and somewhat settling. 

“A child,” Crowley clarified, somehow sensing the confusing in him. Or guessing. “The humans have little humans. Give birth to them. Not sure about the details on it but eh. Guess we’ll find out.”

Adam eventually returned, once the sun fully set, and with a new dead animal thrown over his shoulder. The sight of blood made Aziraphale queasy, which, he thought, was a very mortal thing to feel.

That thought went away once the actual _ birth _ part began. He wasn’t ready for the flesh-tearing, or the blood, _ definitely _wasn’t ready for the screaming. And neither was Crowley, it seemed. He was almost as white as Heaven’s halls well before it was over. Once it was clear no one was going to die, he let Aziraphale back on his hand and left.

They were about 30 paces from the hut before Crowley spoke with a full-body shudder. “That was horrible.”

Aziraphale twitched his head in what he hoped looked like a nod.

“Why would anyone do that at all, let alone _ twice _—”

Aziraphale shuddered, which mostly manifested as erratic wings twitching.

“Oh God, what if they do it _ again?” _

He took a deep breath and looked over to Aziraphale’s bird form. “So a dove, hm?”

A... dove? Was Crowley _ not _stationed on Earth? Or did he somehow not learn his animals in the last few centuries?

Crowley cracked a smile. “Fitting. This for some assignment?”

In a way. May as well be. Aziraphale twitched his head up and down.

Crowley hummed. “Be a bit strange if you were a bird from now on. You _ can _ change back, yeah?”

He hesitated, but decided to nod. Hastur turned into maggots, certainly he could figure it out too. Hopefully.

“Well, all right. Heavens talking about putting more humans down, so I’ll be up there a while helping with that. Should be back down here after, though.”

Aziraphale stared. Not like he could reply.

“Right.” Crowley bit his lip. “Uh. Have fun, with whatever. I’d stay and chat, but they want me back upstairs for this whole population business.”

He bent down and scratched Aziraphale’s head. It was light, soft circles. He eased into the motion, and his eyes fluttered closed. The sensation was lovely. It eased the tension in his small bird body, like being wrapped up in a ball of warmth.

He could hear Crowley chuckle, but he didn't stop, so Aziraphale didn’t really care.

And, suddenly, he felt much different again, and Crowley’s fingers were in his very human hair.

He shot off the ground and stumbled away.

Crowley's eyes shot open. “Aziraphale!”

"Oh my word, _ thank _ you," he breathed. He dusted off his tunic, ran a hand through his hair. "Was rather worried I couldn't go back."

The angel was gawking, just a tad bit dazed. "You really are something.”

Aziraphale was about to reply, question his knowledge on birds— _ Have you ever _ seen _ a dove? _ Or _ an owl? _— but a beam of white light came down from the Heavens, and Crowley was gone.

Be blinked at the empty space for a moment, and then shook his head. For the best.

Throwing himself into work was a great way to not think about it, so that's what he did for the next handful of years.

Observing, as they called it was odd. But it was also… good.

He talked to them some, and other times he tried to lurk, however bad he was at it.

Eve was clever. There was always something sharp on her tongue to say, something witty. Word plays seemed to be her favourite. Adam was a paragon of strength, and also painfully gentle with Eve and the children. He never trusted Aziraphale when he was around, but the rest did.

He almost wished they didn’t. Maybe it would make the twist in his chest hurt less, when Adam would look at him, or sense his presence, and he’d become so rigid, so hard predatorial, if distrusting was the norm.

But could he forgot himself, in a way, as the years slipped by. It all felt fast, since there was really no comparison for how long these things should be.

The two kids were sweet and imaginative, little balls of life. Just as naive and innocent as their parents had been in the garden. It was both lovely and heartbreaking. Especially once they got older, and started to look like their parents.

It was a shock, to see them morph so quickly. Adam and Eve hadn’t changed at all.

When Cain killed Abel, he didn’t see it at first. The thing that haunted him afterwards was how he didn’t _ see it coming _ . The jealousy. The general disdain that set in. A fit of anger or two that went unchecked. How hadn’t he seen it coming? He could’ve done _something _.

The sight was ghastly, nothing had existed like it yet. Not for humans. Heaven and Hell's hands had been dirty since before time had gotten around to starting.

The sort was painted red, almost black, around Able's small, frail body.

Aziraphale rushed to his side, fell to his knees.

The gash wound on his head was long a deep, and the shape of his skull distorted.

Bike shot up the back of his throat at the stench of it, of the thigh pattern that had to have happened to get to this point 

His hand moved to the wound, and froze, just above the unrecognisable skin and hesitated.

He hadn’t tried to miracle anything since the Fall. Not once. And demons can’t heal.

So the boy bled out, and Aziraphale's eyes leaked at his side, silent.

It was his fault. Hell sent him here for this, it had to be this. 

It wasn’t long before he felt Hell’s pull. Maybe he should've resisted, come in at a later time, but he let the ground shift under him anyway.

The familiar cool, clammy embrace of Hell’s air didn’t phase him. Abel's body was gone, but his blood clung to Aziraphale's skin. He stared at the black, chipped concrete, and shivered. 

“Demon,” Lord Beelzebub said.

He shook his head and started, “I-” The follow up turned into a choke, so he gaped at the ground instead. Beelzebub growled. 

“_ Aziraphale. _”

The needles were back, picking and prickling down his back, in his head. A shiver coursed through him, and he looked up. "Yes?"

Beelzebubs icy eyes glared. Their nose pinched up, and their head tilted, just enough to be annoyed, too little to look like it phased them.

"Somethingzz happened. Heaven’zz in a frenzzy. I need an update, _ demon _."

“Cain,” he swallowed, and his eyes fell, “Cain murdered Abel.”

His heart clenched. Eve would be devastated. 

“So Heaven’s got their first.”

And so had Hell, in time.

Beelzebub’s scowl deepened. “You still haven’t changed your name.”

Aziraphale tried a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It won’t be necessary-”

“Aziraphale,” he flinched, much harder not to in Hell, it seemed. “_ Are _ you a demon?”

His hands curled into themselves on the floor. “I—” his eyes darted, “I got them to eat the apple, did I not?”

Their eyes scanned him. Some of the frown alleviated and a moment passed. They hummed. “Very well.” Their eyes don’t let up. He tried to hold the gaze, which was moderately successful. “I suggest you remember what you are. _ They _ always will.”

He only had a moment to wonder who was being referred to, exactly, and zero time to ask before being thrown back into the desert, the dark and damp surrounding blinked into sand and blinding heat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry about the wait, my work decided it was time to only give me three days off in the last four weeks so I spent them sleeping not gunna lie. 
> 
> We cover the flood next and I mostly know how I want that to go so shouldn't be too long. I wanted to do it this one, but felt like there needed to be something between the last one and that event and this feels like it's it

It took Aziraphale an unknowable amount of time to scrap together the will to get up from the sand. He stumbled for hours once he did, until the blue sky bled to black, then blue, then black again. The picture of the poor boy’s head beaten and bashed flashed in his head. He shook it off and pressed forward. 

Into what was unclear.  _ Hell _ was unclear. The few things he'd been told to do were vague, and now he had nothing. Just a vague notion that more people should be popping up to fill the planet out, and that tidbit came from an angel.

So much for the change of employment.

Day bled to night, and he decided to stop. The air chilled his skin, its coolness crept into his clothes, stealing the warmth from them too, and the rock he chose to sit against didn't help matters.

He didn't notice when sleep took him, didn't know he even  _ could  _ sleep.

But the sense of unfiltered love was something to behold. It filled him, spread a warmth through his veins he'd nearly forgotten, like the comfort of embers once a flame was fanned. A hug.

The Halls of Heaven stood tall around him. Halls he'd seen millions of times before. Crevasses he'd counted, pillars he'd admired. 

White pillars shot up in perfect lines next to him, a sea of clouds cloaked in radiant light that seemingly came from nowhere and everywhere floated beyond its border.

Hallways lead to various office places and meeting rooms laid on the other side. Angel's littered the place, some flying above the clouds, others bustling to and from different quadrants of Heaven.

Everyone's wings were as white as their traditional tunics.

It was all quite quaint, but a nagging persisted as he walked-- like an itch in the back of his head. There was something he was supposed to be doing today. 

An icy breeze ripple his tunic, slipped through his hair, and suddenly he was sitting at an office table.

The cold fluorescence buzzes above him as the Archangel Gabriel stared at him, and… and it wasn't  _ right _ . An unnatural quiet stilled the air. He shouldn't be in a suit, his wings shouldn't be tucked away. There was a deadness to his eyes Aziraphale had never seen before.

A bright red apple sat between them.

And… There was something  _ important _ happening. Something he should know.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said evenly.

He bowed his head. "Most Holy Archangel."

"You're probably wondering why I requested a meeting with you."

A scream sounded from somewhere outside the door. Gabriel winced. 

A cool sense of dread crept up his back.

"Well. Duty calls. And you," he gave a stern point, "are being given quite a lot."

His heart skipped a beat. "Me?"

"Yes. The word is the… opposition, is gearing up for a rebellion, as I'm sure you've heard."

"And what am I needed for?"

"As a guardian," he plucked the apple up, and took a small bite, "you're meant to fight. And you've also been elected to  _ lead _ . A sizable platoon is waiting for you," he offered the apple over, "unless there's a  _ problem _ with that."

_ No _ .  _ No no no. _

"Just… go be a leader." Gabriel gave a fake smile. "Confident."

That's what this was. This is where he messed up. He should've said no. All he had to do was say no.

"I—"

_ Just say no. _ What could they do? The Archangels weren't making people Fall. Why supply the enemy with more ammo? Just say no.

Gabriel shook his head with a sigh. His fist closed around the fruit, and it turned to dust, whisked into nonexistence. "But you  _ didn't _ say no Aziraphale, did you?"

Gabriel's chair screeched across the floor. He loomed over his desk, palms planted firmly. "You  _ lied _ to me. And now you lie to yourself."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. How many meetings had he attended that that'd been the case? Words left unsaid, ideas tossed aside. Even the one time it truly mattered he couldn't. Honestly, the only want he'd ever voiced was to Crowley. And that was more so a want to just… not be a demon. Did that even count? 

"Personally I can't believe you're trying to drag down another angel with you." Gabriel shook his head. "Isn't it bad enough  _ you _ Fell from grace? Now you've talked what? Three times? And that poor human." He sighed. "A disgrace."

"But I—"

"No buts, Aziraphale."

There was no warmth anymore. There hadn't been for a long time. Just fire, running up his legs, through his skin. 

He wanted to scream but couldn't, some part of his throat refusing to make the sound, like a knot in his chest refused to release the air.

The floor fell away, his tunic stained black, his wings forever charred.

A lifetime of memories filled flashed in his head— a lifetime with the love of God.

And then it blinked black too.

"Have a nice Fall, sunshine."

He bolted upright, gasping for air under the bleached desert moonlight. His arms flailed, looking for purchase on the grains of sand that gave at the slightest movement.

What was that? Did humans do that  _ every _ time they… lost consciousness? Elaborate delusions? Or was he losing his mind? Some deluded fantasy? A taste of before?

His stomach pulled into itself. He should've just said no. One polite refusal and there'd be no problems. No reason to be curled in the sand.

But he didn't.

The burning slowly receded, and the gasps stabilized to something akin to breathing. 

Perhaps it was time to find people. Or find a bit of paperwork to do until there was a more sizable number of them. Somewhere where whatever  _ that _ was wouldn't happen again. 

Very slowly, he raised his fingers to his temples. There was a spark of something divine— well, not divine really, but something of power. Divine adjacent.

He bit the inside of his lip. Maybe… maybe the miracles would still work for him after all. 

Carefully, he imagined Hell.

And Hell appeared.


End file.
